


things left unsaid

by undomesticatedmarshmallow



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Angst with smut, F/M, Sexual Content, mild spoilers for golden deer route
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-29
Updated: 2019-09-29
Packaged: 2020-11-01 12:24:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,343
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20815121
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/undomesticatedmarshmallow/pseuds/undomesticatedmarshmallow
Summary: one more meeting, shared beneath the moonlight. it's been five years since the last, and they're just the same as they are different.(written for fe rarepair week 2019)





	things left unsaid

**Author's Note:**

> day 1 - spice

She's always tasted like a bitter spice and a mystery he wants to unravel, an enticing blend of flavors wafting beneath the trails of chaos that permeates the world around them. Like a fire she draws him in and consumes his thoughts by sheer virtue of being herself; it’s like she hasn’t changed, still so calculating and distant, commanding and driven, and he’s still all lighthearted words and easy smiles as he pulls almost everything from his sleeves in order to throw her just enough off-guard to show him something new. This time, it’s a spot between her breasts that makes her breath hitch and her nails dig into his shoulder, a shudder arching her back into his languid touch.

He’s not blind to her retaliation. She digs closer into him, as if the hold of her legs around his waist could leave him bare and open, easy to cut into and pull apart for her own scrutinization. Were her weapon in reach, she very well might have done it for real—he doubts it but doesn’t write it out, just as he’s sure she’s thought of a counter to each way he could possibly twist things around into something more than a tryst at any moment. 

The embodiment of distrust and the keeper of secrets; even after all these years and everything that’s happened, they haven’t really changed. Still playing two games of pretend.

“Is it too much to ask you to put a bit a faith in me?” He chuckles against her throat, low and almost playful. Almost. 

“Maybe if you told me what you were planning, we could negotiate it.” It always amazes him how she can manage to sound so clear-cut and steady despite being so breathless, as though thoroughly unaffected by the way he grinds against her. “But we’re not here for negotiations.”  _ The time has long passed for those.  _

Fingers hook into her leggings, her underwear—they don’t work at the same pace or quite the same way despite striving for the same end. She yanks one side down like she’s in a rush, impatience sewn into a strong grip; he eases the fabric down her thigh, not giving her the chance to overlook his touch as he maps her flesh. Her gaze snaps to his like a lavender whip, and he meets her with a smirk that fails to fully cover the somber haze in sharp green. 

“Yeah, you’re right. We’re not.” But he wishes they could be. 

He doesn’t muffle the bare hints of moans she grants him, and she doesn’t let him forget her control with a hard yet not unpleasant grip in his hair. It’s been years but he still remembers the kinds of things she likes but never voiced aloud in the same way she remembers every weakness he brought to the table, like even this is a game of strategy and they’re both vying to claim checkmate. 

With her wrapped around him and his arms holding her close, trying to convey everything they can without words, he can’t tell where their pieces on the board are, much less who’s winning. He's not sure if she can, either.

His grip says:  _ it doesn’t have to be this way, a different path is more achievable than you realize; _ hers answers with  _ there’s no place for selfish dreams when the world’s still crying for help.  _ A snap of his hips forces her to swallow back a whine, nails digging in. _Y_ _ our stubbornness will be the death of you, can’t you see that? _ The way she flips them in a flash stops his heart, sending alarm through his head. Her hand's against his throat but not pressing down, a sad resoluteness in her eyes as she grinds atop him. 

_ Don’t let it be yours. _

They stop the silent back and forth and sink into each other instead, a near perfect rhythm until she gasps and bites her lip, thighs quivering as she clenches down. He helps her off him in a seamless motion, and without pause her fingers are curled around his length, a sure grip as she strokes him to his own completion. For the last time, they let their guards down to just breathe. For the first time, her mouth draws close to his. 

“Why are you so willing to throw away everything?” He asks in a whisper, lips barely brushing hers as he speaks. “Fate isn’t something set in stone. We can still change it. There's still a chance.” 

There’s a plea in his eyes and in the touch he brings to her arm as he searches her expression. Maybe in some other time, it would’ve surprised him more to see that it’s not unreadable, for once; even if it lasts but a flicker of a heartbeat, he reads all that she won’t say, and it sinks in deeper than what she does. 

“There was nothing left for me to throw away from the start. I discarded all of it long ago, all in preparation for this. I've come this far—there is no turning back. There’s no room for failure.”

But she kisses him instead of crushing his throat, closes her eyes instead of grabbing her axe. ‘_No room for failure_’, she says, but she leaves him alive like this—turns her back on him when she gathers her clothes, even allowing his hand to fasten the back of her dress. And when she’s done, she looks up to the stars that weakly stitch patterns into the sky while he watches her, weaving a resolution into his chest. 

This will be the end, they know. They share the moment of peace for what it is, and he wonders if she’s making the same wistful, mourning expression that had shadowed her features just moments before. 

“We’ll meet again, Claude,” she says. It’s that voice that everyone else hears from her instead of the one that once slipped up and gasped his name into his ear. “Know that I have no intention of holding back when we do.” 

It hurts him in ways that go beyond them and what they have. It hurts because he can see how things could have changed for the both of them—how they could’ve avoided this all together and aligned their paths instead of forcibly splitting them apart. With an inaudible sigh, he lifts his gaze to the abyss above, wondering if she feels as small beneath it as he does—if it’s what makes her dreams seem like they’re worth dying for. For a long time, he says nothing, even when he notices she’s been waiting. But she won’t wait forever, he knows; he wonders how heavy she must feel as she starts walking away.

“You don’t have to do this all alone, Edelgard,” he whispers, soft enough to be stolen by a breeze and yet she halts as if he’d shouted it from the heavens. A pained hope in his chest twists, and he begs in silence that she'll take the hand reaching for her one last time. 

She doesn’t turn to face him. 

“Red has never suited you,” she says just as softly. “It never will.” 

He doesn’t stop her again, and he doesn’t watch her leave. By the time he turns his eyes to the empty spot where she’d stood, someone’s noticed his absence, calling out his name loud enough to be heard from the wyvern soaring above. Same as ever, he hails them down with a puppeted smile on his face, chatting away his excuses as his mind floats elsewhere. 

( His resolve doesn’t sprout forth until she’s kneeling in her own blood, worn and defeated with a warning, an order on her tongue but the makings of a smile on her face, as if her path was worth ending like this; he wonders how long it’d been since she’d placed that elusive faith in him without his knowing, and wonders even more how such a weight lifted from his shoulders could manage to feel so heavy in spite of its absence. )


End file.
